


Keeping Time

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder's self-experimentation takes him over until he is either destroyed or saved. New alliances are formed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Time

_“Hang on to your hopes, my friend   
That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away   
Simply pretend   
That you can build them again”_   
-**Simon and Garfunkel**, _**Hazy Shade of Winter **_

 

**I**

Mirrors are the last thing to go—if he does not count the fleeting loss of his mind.

There comes a time when even the briefest glimpse of his own reflection (or more aptly, what he has become) forces him to instinctively recoil. His body is crumbling, peeling away from itself like tissue paper dipped in crimson liquid and it feels like he can shrug his skin off and step outside of the, now metaphorical, vessel that contains him.

Air wheezes in and out of semi-closed nostrils and webbed hands and feet mold his touch to anything that enters his orbit. Hardened scales have grown on his back along an undetermined pathway that circles his torso and leads downwards along his left thigh then tapers off behind the knee. Itchy, ticklish, jerky, sensitive—everything is too intense.

Without sight of himself he can live in a sphere of false denial. Home is the darkened lab transformed into a self-created prison. He spares the world his monstrosity while every day he pays for his misdeeds.

 

**II**

Hand scribbled notes detailing the slightest alterations of body and mind are piled high and tilt in heaps across desk space, counter space and patches of the floor. Voice recordings (back when his still possessed an endearingly human quality that made people lean closer, quirk a smile, and be more inclined to hear that he had to say) are marked and labeled, proceeding from order to chaos in a locked shelving unit in the back. The increasingly illegible writing matches the downward spiral of the misfortune he has dealt himself. Computer printouts of lab work with the cryptic language of adjusted and manipulated formula factors litter the walls, stuck with the very biological secretions they detail.

The lab is a paper brick road that no longer leads to the emerald city.

He is the (barely) living embodiment of an oracle prophecy that declares the end of the world.

What his mind has unleashed—

What his hands have wrought—

For whom the bell tolls—

And yet he just will not die. Intense pain stays his own hands from completing the desperate act and the natural order of things insists his life still holds some purpose beyond his own understanding.

If he were a religious man he would believe this life is purgatory.

Or Hell.

 

**III **

Bennet looks at him with such—_disdain_.

The humiliation that Mohinder already feels for what he has become creeps up the skin cells of his body and he tries to pull back, retreating as far as possible into the most distant corner of the lab.

“The brilliant Dr. Suresh,” Bennet says, stepping forward with a smirk to add, “Or do you answer to Mr. Hyde now?”

Mohinder brings his limbs in against his body and crouches to the floor, keeping his eyes focused on the surprise visitor. Knowing Bennet he thinks this posturing is weak and submissive when in fact the positioning is a mode of attack meant to give Mohinder the best leverage from which to spring forth—if need be.

It has been ages since he last had a guest and though he craves the scrap of human connection being waved in front of him, his situation does not allow for it to last long. Out of protection for the outside world, which goes hand in hand with his own suffering punishment, Mohinder attacks every tie that still remains to another life.

“Leave me alone!”

Bennet pauses, his eyes growing wide as he startles at the sound of Mohinder’s severely altered voice, and he takes a small step back. “Thought I’d check in on an old friend,” Bennet says cautiously and wrinkles his brow in disbelief. “How long have you been living like this? Just how far off the grid did you go?”

Mohinder feels the hairs raise along the back of his neck and he presses his clawed fingers into the fists of his skin. “Who’s still trying to keep tabs on me?” he demands tersely. “No one! It would serve you best to consider me forgotten.”

“I’d like nothing more,” is Bennet’s quick frustrated retort. “But…”

Mohinder’s eyes search his for the missing words that complete whatever confessional Bennet has sought to bring his way. Anxiousness flips his stomach and blood rushes so strongly through his veins he rides every course of its movement from head to toe and back up again.

Bennet tries again with a forcibly calm tone belying the most definite uncertainty beneath. “It would seem there’s someone—,”

“No one! I don’t want anyone here, to see…You should not have come here. There is nothing left. Nothing!”

Bennet bristles at the harsh dismissal and backtracks to the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the front door. He makes it up three stairs then pauses and looks back in Mohinder’s direction.

“You never did listen, Suresh.”

 

**IV**

Lab. Lair. It has born witness to uplifting hope and immeasurable repulsion. Creation. Destruction. Uncompromising.

Peter, furious and determined, flies at him from one corner of the room. Mohinder, perched upside down on the far wall and held in place by sticky secretions from his pores and the claw grip his finger and toenails afford him, snarls and launches himself forward. They meet mid flight.

An entanglement of brutal limbs and snapping teeth, their crash to the floor is all rips and pulls, forcing past normal breaking points. Jagged tears spill blood, but where Peter heals, Mohinder begins the permanent march towards the darkness that has been meaning to swallow him whole.

For someone with a death wish, Mohinder is surprised at his own will to fight and only in that unanticipated passion is the realization unveiled that a part of him wants to live—to fix the mess that consumes all of them, that he caused; to not become the infamous historical footnote.

Then Peter is on top of him, covered in blood, and Mohinder feels his cracked bones, jostled, cutting through the surrounding muscle as he bleeds out his every deviancy. Peter mutters, “Nathan,” repeatedly under his breath and he presses harder, breaking through Mohinder’s final act of resistance.

“Stop!”

Someone (_who_?) shouts it and suddenly Peter is wide eyed and flying backwards, off of Mohinder, and into the desk, knocked unconscious. Mohinder tries to raise his head to see what has happened (_who else is here_?) but the loss of so much blood convinces his mind that sleep would be nice about now.

As he closes his eyes for the first peaceful slumber in months he hears the sound of footsteps approaching.

 

**V**

There are no distinguishable moments. On the rare occasion that Mohinder stumbles briefly into consciousness there is only the fuzziest of perceptions.

Voices detached from bodies and undiscernable as belonging to anyone specific, echo distantly as if at the far end of a chamber.

_“You shouldn’t have brought him here.”   
_  
_“Should I have left him to die?”_

Mohinder groans.

Pressure and a sharp sting in his left bicep sets his blood on fire and he passes out before his mute scream suffocates.

 

**VI**

There is the gentle touch of a hand across his forehead. Comforting. If he could lean into it he would.

_“He’s doing better. His body’s healing.”_

_“They’re looking for him—both of you by now since you’ve taken him on as your responsibility.”   
_  
Mohinder’s dreamscape explodes. So many faces create a collage of strong colours and unrelentless emotions. The power of the subconscious is that it kills from within. The strongest image is that of Peter’s hatred and vengeance seeping into him. Once friendly eyes demand his death. If he can plead forgiveness maybe he can change the verdict.

“Peter?”

The hand tenses and pulls away at his broken and scratchy utterance.

Dream. Nightmare. It is all the same.

There is no absolution to be found.

 

**VII **

It could be a week. Maybe it is a month. At some point on some calendar Mohinder is able to open his eyes and see the new box he is in. And it is a box. A room with no windows and no furniture (except for the bed he is in, a dresser drawer and a chair) he has traded in one cell for another.

The sparse accommodation, however, takes a backseat to the unexpected change in his body. Throwing the blanket off himself he sees the scars and scabs that still run along his skin, but they are all old ones. No new wounds have erupted from within, but there is a dull ache like his joints and muscles are too swollen to allow him any smooth movements.

Forcing his legs over the side of the bed he grimaces as he fights to sit upright and blood rushes away from his brain. The momentum of his body pitching forward is uncontrollable and as blackness drops across his mind he is abruptly stopped.

There is pressure in his left bicep—body—no, this time only his arm and torso are on fire.

_Goodnight_, he thinks.

 

**VIII **

Nothing prepares Mohinder for Nathan at his bedside (especially considering what he had done to the man when he was at his worst), and no matter how many times Nathan tries to spell out the details it still does not fully compute. Instead Mohinder uses his strength to grasp the small bit that he can.

“This…serum you injected yourself with….we can’t take out what you put in,” Nathan says, calmly explaining the predicament that now exists. “However we do have a drug—an antidote—that inhibits the side effects. Basically it keeps your abilities dormant, but…”

Mohinder raises his eyebrow expectantly.

“Unfortunately you have to inject yourself at the same time every day and you’ve only got a three minute window…at best.”

Mohinder ponders Nathan’s words. “So…that’s what’s been…making me better?”

“Yes.”

From his seated position on the bed, Mohinder stares at Nathan who is sitting two feet away in the chair he has pulled up next to Mohinder with his arms folded across his chest. His body language does not scream caring concern but worried defensiveness. Still, Mohinder does not want to question any version of goodwill bestowed upon him.

Tentatively he asks, “Peter? Is he—,”

“Fine.”

The halting reply shuts down that particular line of questioning and Mohinder imagines nothing can be more strained until Sylar walks into the room, hovering near the wall.

Startled, Mohinder’s breathing matches the rapid pounding of his heart. “Sylar?”

Sylar stares dark eyes at him and Nathan looks over his shoulder to exchange a brief nod with him before turning back to Mohinder. “We now refer to him as Gabriel.”

Dumbfounded at the perplexity of these two men working together, Mohinder demands, “Gabriel? What the hell is going on, Nathan?”

Nathan sighs.

“That’s another thing we need to talk about.”

 

**IX **

The watch Nathan gives Mohinder looks every bit a present but in actuality it is a restraint, a reminder of just how far he has fallen. 7:00 pm on the dot it beeps and warns him to self-medicate or perish.

If the painful push of the drug through the barrier of his skin and firing up of his blood is not torture enough for a past he is doomed to never outrun, then Sylar—_Gabriel_—showing up to watch him carry through with it does the trick.

Mohinder sees the twitch of the disguised smirk that pulls at Gabriel’s lips as he stands in the doorway leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets, silently observing Mohinder’s sufferable penance.

“Are you going to watch me every single time?” Mohinder says through gritted teeth, half out of frustration and half out of trying not to whimper and show any signs of negative side effects to the drugs.

“Apparently you need to be babysat,” Gabriel says with cold distaste in his tone. “Just look at the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“So you’re my keeper now?” Mohinder glares and puts the needle down on top of the dresser. He sucks in a shark intake of air as a particularly painful searing sting shoots up his arm and down his chest to his left thigh. He undoes the watch and places it next to the needle, trying to enjoy a brief minute of pretend freedom before it all begins again.

“Someone has to be,” Gabriel rolls his eyes and turns around. As he walks out of the room he raises his voice. “I drew the short straw.”

 

**X**

“I don’t understand,” Mohinder says in response to Nathan’s panicked urgency.

“You two have to go—_now_,” Nathan says distractedly, paying more attention to Gabriel and the duffle bag packed with clothes and the required medication meant to last a presumably lengthy amount of time.

“Yes, I get that part, but why?” Mohinder prods. Getting no response he walks over to them and, grabbing Nathan by the shoulders, spins him around. “What do they want with me?”

For a moment Nathan looks to be contemplating a lie then reconsiders. “Your body still holds the answers to genetic weaponry,” Nathan sighs. “What you’ve done they…my father using this _army_ he’s created, wants to harvest it, manipulate and redesign it. He wants to develop a vaccine but not to wipe this horrific creation of existence. For him the vaccine is a counter only to be used _if_ needed, _if_ the wrong person were to get infected. Otherwise he _wants_ this weapon to exist. Now that he’s seen the power it can wield…he’ll stop at nothing to get you. You’re…patient zero.”

Mohinder recoils from the long extending tentacles of the monster he created—all out of good intentions—tightening around him, picking at his feet just waiting for the right time to trip him up. “It will never be over.”

Nathan looks down at the floor then back to Mohinder.

“I’m so sorry,” Mohinder mutters, unable to return either of their gazes. So much for his moral compass which had turned out to be totally skewed by selfish justifications. A strong hand grips his left shoulder and he looks up to find Nathan starting intently at him.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Nathan says. “We’ve all been driven by what we believed to be right…and we’ve all been blinded along the way. We haven’t been able to figure out how my father’s ability works, to take this out of you. His secret is very well protected and until we have the strength on our side to take him on you have to keep using the anecdote.”

Mohinder follows Nathan’s look over his shoulder at Gabriel who is watching him with an unreadable expression. “Gabriel,” Nathan calls for his attention, “will look out for you until it’s safe to meet up again.”

 

**XI**

They are running, or bettter yet, driving. There is no time for sitting still except with the landscape speeding by outside. Movement is constant and the road tallies days into weeks.

Conversations are odd, then strained, then safe. They do not push into the how and why of being here although it is the most inescapable topic. These talks are not meant to connect or work as get-to-know-you chatter. These are meant to help avoid. The rainbrow striped elephant in between them stomps about, tilting angles and squeezing the space, but they find ways to look around it.

Stretches of time take on the unexpected trait of normalcy and for a moment Mohinder is allowed to forget.

Then his watch beeps.

It handcuffs him. In the snap of his fingers they are back on the run. Mohinder is resigned and a glance out of the corner of his eyes tells him that Gabriel is unimpressed with the entire situation. Mohinder feels the hostility seething off of him from the driver’s seat—all directed his way.

As much as Mohinder does not care for Gabriel’s personal happiness (_even serial killers have feelings_, Mohinder scoffs) he understands the greater picture pressing down; unforgiving. His own actions have brought this unwanted outcome upon a lot of people and now they are all charged with cleaning up his mess.

Injection. He slips the watch off, temporarily places it on the dashboard, and gazes at nothing outside the window as he tries to recreate a world with his mind that is worth living in.

 

 

**XII**

All motel rooms are the same. They are places with no beginnings and no ends. They are a pause in time that allow occupants to catch their breaths.

Mohinder begins to doze off on top of the thinning bedspread after an exhausting day on the road with only two pit stops. His body is hurting worse than usual and he wonders if his dosage needs to be adjusted. The distant sound of beeping jolts him and he raises his left arm above him to peer at the face of the watch.

6:00 pm. He sighs and drops his arm at his side, breathing deeper. Slowly his eyes flutter closed.

Without warning his arm is pulled up and to the side. Opening his eyes in surprise he is yanked by Gabriel into a seated position on the side of the bed.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Gabriel ignores him and raises Mohinder’s left arm to his ear. Furrowing his brow he listens. “It’s stopped. Take it off. I’ll have to fix it.”

Mohinder undoes the watch strap then slows down as he hands it over. He can still hear the beeping and it is only when Gabriel reaches forward to claim the stopped timepiece that he realizes it is Gabriel’s watch announcing to them his need to take the anecdote. Their eyes meet briefly before Gabriel stands up.

Mohinder scoots closer to the nightstand and unrolls the leather flapcase that contains two syringes and a small vial of clear liquid. It does not look like much but it is the difference between functioning and madness, between forgiveness and reprehensibility. As he picks up one syringe and the vial, trying to draw out the correct amount, his sees his hands shaking. He tries to clear his head but he cannot bring his hands under control.

_If Gabriel hadn’t been here I would have missed the injection and then…_

Finally he puts the vial down and uses the back of his right hand (palming the syringe) to smack his upper left arm and push a vein up. Unsteadily he presses the tip of the needle to his skin.

_I screwed up again. Gabriel is right. I need a bloody babysitter to counter my incompetency._

Mohinder feels the metal tip poking through the first layer of skin cells but he is too shaky to go any further. He senses Gabriel watching him, staring down at him from a lofty perch of full control spying on the degenerate he has turned into. A second later Gabriel is kneeling in front of him, the watch tossed on to the bed, taking the syringe and Mohinder’s arm in hand. He pushes the needle in, not pausing at the hiss Mohinder emits, and administers the anecdote. Once he is finished he puts the needle on the nightstand and presses his thumb over the puncture wound.

Mohinder stares at him and is very much aware of the gentle pressure in Gabriel’s hold on him. In a flash of clarity Mohinder places his right hand on top of Gabriel’s which is still holding on to his arm. Gabriel looks at him with surprise and Mohinder notes that his eyes are softer, more worried.

“It was…why did you stop Peter?” Mohinder awkwardly asks when his curiosity gets the better of him. “You saw what I had become and he…he’s your…”

Gabriel quickly drops his gaze to his hand wrapped around Mohinder’s skin and says nothing.

Mohinder refuses the silent non-response. “Did you bring me to Nathan?” He looks down at Gabriel, waiting, then adds, “Was it you who orchestrated all of this?”

When Gabriel finally looks back at him it is no longer necessary to speak the truth out loud. Mohinder sees it in the worried crease of his forehead, the uncertainty in his crinkled eyes, the tensed jaw and the slight bite of his lower lip.

“Why?” Mohinder says and he shifts forward off the bed to sit on the floor with his back against the bed frame. Gabriel knees his way to sit on Mohinder’s right side. He keeps his right hand stretched out across his body to hold on to Mohinder’s left arm. Their movement puts them in a half embrace, shoulder to shoulder, leaning into each other.

“I may be a Petrelli, but I _know_ you…I _owe _you…” Gabriel says quietly, firmly ensuring the implications of his words are heard. He lifts his thumb and when Mohinder glances down he sees the puncture wound is gone and no drop of blood beads to the surface. Gabriel presses his thumb back down and returns Mohinder’s questioning look from beneath a tilted gaze.

“What you’ve done,” Mohinder begins.

“We’re fugitives now,” Gabriel interrupts.

Mohinder looks to the floor. “Yes…yes it would seem we are.”

He focuses on the bare white wall in front of them. Gabriel’s hand presses a welcoming heat into the skin of his arm and Mohinder can hear his breathing against his ear. He angles up his right arm that is between them to rest it on his lap, lightly brushing his fingers against Gabriel’s arm.

There is nothing else to say.

Mohinder listens for the ticking of Gabriel’s watch as the second hand continues its endless journey. Soon it is the only sound that fills the room.   
 


End file.
